


Alcatraz, But On Hardmode

by SunnyBlue



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Batfamily (DCU), Brotherly Love, Concussions, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Good Bro Dick Grayson, Good Bro Jason Todd, Hugs, Humor, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, I Like Hugs, Protective Damian Wayne, Protective Dick Grayson, Protective Jason Todd, Sibling Bonding, There are hugs, Wholesome, i love these boys, tim is a sleepy child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23755261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyBlue/pseuds/SunnyBlue
Summary: “How are we planning to escape, exactly? Cuz we have basically no idea where we are and we’re the only team here. And our strategist,” he emphasizes the word enough that Tim rolls his eyes (painfully, because concussion, woohoo), “is stuck in the Alcatraz version of handcuffs. Who the hell’s gonna help us?”“People escaped Alcatraz.”“Yeah, and then they died two seconds later.”"Technically we don’t know that.”“I heard they ran away to Argentina.”"...We're literally never getting out of here."
Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 86
Kudos: 1187





	1. A Punch Card Would Be Appreciated

**Author's Note:**

> Turns out I'm incapable of writing anything short. Woo!!

Tim Drake is pretty sure that getting kidnapped by aliens is probably not something that would be considered common in most people’s lives.

Tim Drake is not most people. Far from it, actually, if his kidnapped-by-aliens count is anything to go by. Maybe he can get a punch card. 

“So,” he hears Virgil huff from behind him, “how are we getting out of this one, chief?” He says that like he’s been on more than maybe ten missions. Granted, those ten or so missions have certainly had the common theme of getting captured, kidnapped or trapped, but at least this time it’s kind of interesting because it’s aliens. 

Plus, these aliens seem smart. The League’s intel on them has turned out to not be entirely accurate, which leaves Tim effectively unfamiliar with their race or technology, but from what he can tell the restraints the squad has been put in are kind of like the inhibitor collars: somehow, they recognize the powers of the wearer and turn them off. Bart in particular is mad about that development, and considering his literal inability to sit still, Tim can’t say he blames him.

Of course, Tim has no superpowers for the restraints to turn off, but their captors didn’t need to know that. When they left the squad alone, Tim picked the locks in two seconds flat, hit his Batcave-connected emergency beacon because he’s not stupid, and started moving to free Virgil. And then, because Tim is a Bat and just attracts bad luck, the door of their cell burst open and three guards stormed inside for the express purpose of kicking the shit out of him. He realized as the blows rained down that the restraints probably have some kind of heart rate monitor in them that alerts guards when a pulse disappears. He also realized that he was really fucking dumb for not thinking of that  _ before  _ he tried taking them off.

So here Tim is, lying on the floor of a dingy ass cell inside a freaky ass mothership, with a super painful concussion and a broken nose and some cracked ribs and a fuckton of bruises and his entire squad trapped with him. And new restraints, by the way, which is just lovely. These ones are extra heavy-duty, too — some kind of unnecessarily thick metal in a wide, rounded form that completely covers both of his hands and forearms, locking his wrists and freezing his fingers. His feet and ankles are bound with something similar and have been connected to a strip of the same metal around his thighs, rendering him unable to stand, and his knees are locked together with another strip of metal. Just to top it off, the shackles on his hands are attached to the shackles on his feet, which leaves him basically curled up in a ball facing away from his friends. And his nose is still bleeding like a damn waterfall. Fucking awesome. 

His foggy brain reminds him that Virgil asked him a question that he hasn’t answered yet, but he has no idea what it was. He coughs, spitting out a mouthful of the blood from his nose that won’t stop draining down his throat, and turns his head a bit over his shoulder. “Sorry, Static, what?”

Something about Tim’s current state (too many options to count) makes Virgil wince and soften his voice, but he’s learned by now that Robin is a kickass kind of tough and that the bird likely feels much more intact right now than anybody would or should be under the same circumstances. “Wondering if we have a plan of attack.”

“How would we?” La’gaan mutters, hunched in the corner of the small cell with his head resting on his knees. “We have basically no idea where we are and we’re the only team here. And our  _ strategist,” _ he emphasizes the word enough that Tim rolls his eyes (painfully, because concussion, woohoo), “is beat up and stuck in the Alcatraz version of handcuffs. Who the hell’s gonna help us?”

“People escaped Alcatraz,” Jaime points out from his seat next to Bart, who clearly missed the Alcatraz unit in History class and is just kinda nodding along.

“Yeah, and then they died two seconds later,” La’gaan huffs.

Jaime shrugs. “We technically don’t know that.”

“Some people say they escaped to Argentina,” Virgil adds, and Tim can’t help but groan, although this time it’s in annoyance and not in pain.

“So are we planning on getting out, or...?” Bart cuts in, leaning back against the wall. “Because I would really, really like to get out. Like, a lot. So much. Just a thought.”

Tim tilts his head further back towards them, wincing with the bolt of pain that the motion sears through his brain. “We’re gonna get out, Kid.”

“Again, how?” La’gaan grumbles.

Tim’s answer is abandoned in his mind when he feels his guts clench. He’s been trying to ignore the blood gushing from his nose so as to not scare his friends, but that kind of means he’s been swallowing a lot of it and his stomach is really not happy with him for it. Tim’s masked eyes widen and he opens his mouth to warn his friends, but he’s forced to abort his words and turn as far away as he can when heat suddenly rolls up his throat and he retches hard, vomiting bright red blood and what remains of his lunch onto the cold metal floor. He grumbles, though it sounds more like a pissed-off whine, and resigns himself to letting his body freak out for a minute so he can focus better later. 

By the time he stops throwing up, he’s managed to prop himself up a bit on one shoulder to get farther away from his friends, but it’s over with now and he’s exhausted enough that he lets himself carefully fall back to fully resting on his side. His tongue feels like a lump of hot, wet metal, and he winces at the taste he knows too damn well, curling his lip and spitting it out as best he can. Tim drags in a slow breath, holds it, and presses it back out, frustrated and tired and  _ really  _ not liking the fact that his friends just saw that, because they’re definitely going to react like it’s a huge deal and it’s just not what they need to be focused on right now.

Sure enough, all four of his squad members are suddenly talking all at once, and it’s really not doing anything to help the pulsing headache his concussion is twisting into the nerves behind his eyes. “Shut up,” he says, not harsh but not kind either, and his voice is just ragged enough to hear it. He clears his throat and the boys snap their mouths shut. “I’m fine.”

“Rob, you’re throwing up blood,” Virgil says gently, like he’s breaking the news and Tim’s finding this out for the first time. But Tim really does appreciate his concern —  _ their  _ concern. He appreciates that they’re worried, appreciates that they care about him, enjoys the warm feeling it puts in his chest, but again, they  _ really  _ don’t need to be focused on this right now.

“It’s just the blood from my nose. Nothing internal,” he reassures, or tries to, not that it looks like it worked when he turns his head over his shoulder to gauge their reactions. He shakes his head at their wide-eyed stares — Bart’s damn puppy eyes are a superpower the restraints can’t turn off. “I’m okay, really. Right now we need to be worried about escaping.”

The boys don’t seem convinced, but finally La’gaan sighs and appears to refocus, which Tim literally cannot thank him enough for doing, because the others follow soon after. “Do you have a plan?”

“Sort of,” Tim says, and it’s not really the answer he wants to give but it’s what he’s got right now, so sue him. “I have a tracker on me that I activated, but there’s no guarantee it’ll work from space.” He pauses to scrunch up his nose and spit out more blood. He’s used to the taste, yeah; that doesn’t mean he likes it. Tim briefly has a mental image of himself as a vampire — vampire  _ bat _ — and has to stop himself from snorting. He’d be even paler than he already is. 

“Okay. So do you have a backup plan?” La’gaan asks, and the answer is no, of course he doesn’t, he’s locked in a ball on the floor of a dungeon in an alien mothership, you complete and utter dumbass.

“It’ll have to be a ruse,” he says, pushing his doubts away. “I think the restraints have a heart rate monitor in them; if we take them off, the guards will be alerted and…” he nods down at his Alcatraz handcuffs. “This. We’ll have to unlock them but keep them on until just the right time. Which of you can pick locks?” He looks back over his shoulder and sees four faces, each maintaining complete blankness in their own way. His eyes narrow. “You… the fuck, none of you know how?”

Bart has the decency to look sheepish. “I can always vibrate through.”

La’gaan nods. “I usually break locks.”

“Scarab uses nanobots to do it,” Jaime adds, smiling apologetically.

Virgil completes the quartet. “When would I have learned?” 

Tim blinks once, twice, then groans and lets his aching skull rest on the floor. Even the controlled motion sends white-hot spots ricocheting around his vision. He thinks about waiting for one of them to hit the corner of his sight perfectly, like he used to with the TV logo when the screen was paused, but decides he can’t waste that much time. Later, though. Sounds relaxing. Meditative. Maybe Dick will do it with him.

He blinks a third time, tries to clear them away. “Remind me to update our technical skills training,” he says sincerely, and the corner of Virgil’s lip quirks upwards as he nods.

“Well, if we can’t get ourselves out, then what—” Jaime is cut off sharply when an alarm starts screaming outside their cell, and Tim is about 800% sure it’s the loudest goddamn thing he’s ever heard. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to let himself bite down on his lips or tongue because that’s just gonna end with more blood in his mouth. His head is pounding in throbs with every blare — his friends are saying something behind him, and they sound like they’re yelling too and  _ oh my god, why won’t it stop, holy shit,  _ but it doesn’t, and everything is so fucking loud and Tim is probably a bit more concussed that he realized and this is literally ridiculous at this point because he hears what sounds like gunshots in the distance, and isn’t that just a lovely addition to his plight at the moment? He’s gonna make a SoundCloud track called  _ Concussion (2015),  _ and everyone will think it’s the soundtrack for the film with Will Smith, but instead it’s just gonna be a recording of exactly what he’s hearing right now in order to simulate a concussion and it’s gonna fuck with everyone and it’ll be super funny. 

Okay yeah, running that back, Tim is  _ definitely _ a bit more concussed than he realized. 

A huge smashing sound sends an iron spike into his brain, but an instant later he’s thankful for it, because the alarm goes blessedly silent immediately. Tim lets out a heavy sigh and sags as much as he can against his restraints, spitting out another mouthful of blood as he lets the final waves of noise-induced pain dull back into a more typical concussion-style headache. 

“Robin? Talk to us, man.”

Tim sighs again, lighter this time, and forces his eyes open. “I’m good,” he says airily, and once again turns his head over to look at them even though he knows it’s probably a bad idea. It’s worth it; four sets of eyes soften with relief when he meets them.

_ “¿Estás bien, hermano?”  _ Jaime asks, voice respectfully and knowingly quiet.

_ “He tenido peor,”  _ Tim replies, and Jaime grins, which was the goal. They all seem to settle a little more, and Tim understands why: he can’t possibly be  _ too  _ concussed if he remembers all his languages. Not that they have proof that he remembers all of them, but he does, and for the record, they would only  _ really  _ have cause for concern if he could suddenly only speak Russian. As far as Tim’s concerned, as long as he can still see shapes and still knows the difference between Russian and English, it’s all good.

Bart opens his mouth to say something and instead startles when a heavy metallic clanging sound comes from somewhere down the long hallway. Oh, shit, did he not imagine those gunshots? Fuck, he thought they were just a figment of his mind being an asshole. He hears the sound of a gun hammer cocking back and a low whimper and realizes that someone is really inside the mothership. He just hopes they’re friendly.

“Where the fuck is my brother?”

Ah. Of course. 


	2. Raincoat Raft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess who?

Tim freezes. He feels his friends tense behind him, but he knows they’re doing it for a very different reason than he is. They’re scared, rigid with fear of what might attack them when they’re totally defenseless and so far from home. 

But Tim would know that voice anywhere; the reason he freezes is because he definitely didn’t expect to hear it  _ here.  _ But here is part of anywhere, and dammit if he doesn’t know that voice. It’s laughing with him in the living room at 2:00 am, it’s telling him to be careful tonight in the depths of the Batcave, it’s promising death to whoever ate the last of Alfred’s cookies in the kitchen, it’s annoying and bitchy and spews a lot of bullshit and he doesn’t know if he’s ever been so relieved to hear it threatening someone’s life.

_ “Where is he?”  _ The voice barks, and his friends all startle, but Tim relaxes and a small smile makes its way to his bloodied face.

_ “Hood,”  _ he calls as loudly as he can, and he hears four sharp inhales behind him, four pairs of feet scrabbling for purchase to push his friends farther back against the wall, trying to hide, but he ignores them because they’ll understand soon enough and right now he doesn’t even care how much Jason makes fun of him for this, he just wants to see his brother and get out of these damn Alcatraz handcuffs.  _ “Here.” _

There’s the familiar sound of a pistol-whip striking a temple and then boots running near-silently in the direction of their cell. The fact that he’s making any noise at all is a good sign; he must’ve taken out every threat in the immediate area. The footsteps draw ever nearer, and Bart whispers something like  _ nice knowing you guys,  _ and Tim doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes because suddenly the bulky form of Jason Todd is skidding to a stop in front of their cell, catching himself on the bars of the door. He takes one look inside and moves to what Tim thinks is a control panel beside the cell, pulling one of Oracle’s code breakers from his belt and slapping it onto the screen. In three seconds the bars slide away, and Jason steps inside and looks only at Tim with a huge, shit-eating grin on his face.

“Heya, Replacement,” he says, and obviously Tim knows better than this but it really looks like Jason hasn’t even noticed the other four boys. He’s got that grin, but Tim can see his pinpoint focus in the slight hunch of his shoulders, can see his worry in the way he holds his left hand. 

Nonetheless, Tim will play along for as long as Jason keeps the charade going, because he knows it’ll help reassure him. “Hey, jackass,” he huffs, as if he isn’t way beyond happy to see him, but he knows Jason can see right through him as easily as Tim can see through Jason. 

Behind him, Jaime mumbles a small  _ what the…  _ and Tim continues to ignore them all. He feels kind of bad, but what the hell is he gonna do? It’s not like he can help get them out.

Jason crouches down in front of him and hits the release on his helmet, setting it down beside him with only a domino to cover his face, newly visible brows drawing closer and closer together as he takes in his brother’s restraints and condition. For the first time, he glances up at the other four, who flinch back hard, and a smirk twitches at his lips as he scans over their restraints, too. He looks back to Tim and gives a low whistle. “Jesus, Red, what’d you do to piss them off so much?” He gently pushes Tim’s hair out of his face and frowns at the blood that’s basically everywhere at this point, but Tim knows he can tell at a glance that it’s from his nose and nothing more important. “Report?” He asks as he moves to inspect the Alcatraz handcuffs, and Tim knows it’s only a question because part of him is asking if Tim even  _ can  _ report right now.

Of course he can, he’s not a toddler. Damn. “Two to four cracked ribs, mild to moderate concussion, heavy but non-lethal bruising to the abdomen and upper body, possible mild bruising to the extremities, broken nose. Swallowed some blood, threw it back up.”

“Sounds like my kinda Friday night,” Jason says. He holds up the huge chunk of metal encasing Tim’s hands and feet and connecting them together, taking some strain off of his shoulders and hips. He’d really like to sit up. “These things are insane. There’s like six locks here. Can barely even see them; this is gonna take a minute.” But he pulls out three lockpicks, the tiny tiny ones that they almost never use, and goes to work. “Seriously, what’d you do?”

“Slipped the first ones,” Tim says, and he would shrug, but his entire body kind of aches now that the adrenaline is fading with the relief of someone coming to help them, so he’s not gonna do that.

Jason grins and doesn’t look away from the restraints. “Atta boy.”

Tim grumbles. “Couldn’t slip the second ones.”

Jason’s eyes widen, but still they don’t look away. His focus is locked down, no matter how much talking he does. He can compartmentalize like that. Tim may or may not be jealous of it. “Christ, these are only the  _ second  _ ones? They’re connected to your feet and everything. Don’t they know you unlock hardmode after beating  _ all  _ the easier ones?” Tim huffs a laugh, sniffling in annoyance as more blood trickles out of his nose. Jason moves out of the way, Tim spits out the blood, and Jason immediately goes back to work. No words needed. Tim is  _ so  _ glad to see him.

“Squad, report?” Jason says after a moment, and Tim feels the squad jolt as a unit. Hey, at least they’re working together. 

Jaime lets out an accidental grunt of startlement and the others take that as indication that he’s the one who’s going to speak, which makes Tim want to laugh at the look of total betrayal that he knows is on his friend’s face. Jaime does his best to emulate Robin. “U-uh, we’re fine. Mild bruising to the wrists and ankles, and standard cuts and scrapes from a fight earlier,” he says, slowly gaining confidence. Tim is proud of him; talking to the Red Hood is no small feat, whether he’s wearing that Red Hood or the domino under it. Hell, even if he’s just Jason Todd. The guy can be a real bitch. “The restraints have disabled our powers, but we should be back to normal once they’re off,” Jaime continues. 

Jason doesn’t react beyond a nod, filing away the information in one of the compartments in his brain. Tim rolls his eyes and grunts to get his attention, and when Jason meets his eyes he gestures minutely towards Jaime. Jason bites back an annoyed sigh, which Tim is thankful for, and spares a glance at Jaime. “Good work,” he says, and Tim can see the gears turning in his head as he tries to figure out how to display an appreciative facial expression to someone who isn’t versed in the delicate art of interpreting emotions under a domino mask. “All of you,” Jason says, sparing a glance for the other squad members, too.

For a moment, there’s a stunned pause, and then Jaime breaks it with a quiet, “Thanks for getting us out.”

Jason nods again. “Thanks for taking care of this idiot,” he rebounds, and Tim huffs. Jason grins at him and heaves a theatrical sigh, clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “’Sides, he’s not about to just get his shit together and do it himself.”

Tim’s scoff is partially blocked by the coagulating blood in his nose. At least the bleeding is finally slowing down. “I thought you  _ stopped  _ trying to kill me,” he says.

Jason snorts and grins wider, but doesn’t say anything because in the next second the Alcatraz handcuffs are finally falling away. Tim lets out a relieved breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and flexes his chilled fingers. Jason carefully inspects his hands for injury before moving on to the metal strips around his knees and thighs, which must have much simpler locks on them because Jason has them off in ten seconds each and then suddenly Tim’s pounding head is resting comfortably in the crook of a shoulder and he’s being hugged tightly to his brother’s chest. 

Jason doesn’t do hugs. Almost never; he does them when he needs to carry someone, but those don’t really count, and sometimes,  _ sometimes  _ he does them if somebody is upset enough that he decides they really need it (Dick, usually). Jason doesn’t do hugs for himself. He never has, and that’s just him, and that’s always been fine. But this, right now, this is different. Tim is tired and hurting, yeah, but he isn’t upset, and he doesn’t need to be carried (yet). This hug is happening, and it isn’t for Tim; this hug is for Jason.

Slowly, hesitantly, Tim brings his arms under Jason’s and wraps them around his brother’s torso. Jason doesn’t budge, just tucks him closer, and Tim has to admit he has somewhat of an urge to make fun of the guy to the ends of the earth for this, but he gets the feeling that this is important, somehow, that Jason needs this, so he shoves it all down and just lets himself be hugged. He doesn’t usually get this opportunity, after all, and as much as Tim will never admit it to Dick, few things make him feel better as well as a good, solid hug. 

“...Jay?” Tim whispers after a moment, making sure he’s quiet enough that nobody but his brother can hear him.

“Don’t tell Goldie,” Jason responds instantly, and Tim can’t help the tired laugh that bubbles up out of his throat. 

“Secret’s safe with me.”

“Better be,” Jason grumbles, and gives Tim a final squeeze before pulling back and reevaluating his brother, thumbing at some of the dried blood on his chin with a frown. “Let’s get you patched up, Babybird.” He sits Tim down against the wall even as bright pink heat rises in his cheeks and ears. Of course Jason had to call him that in front of his friends. Of course. 

Jason stows his tiny lockpicks and pulls out a larger one, moving to Bart and making quick work of the simpler lock. Tim’s friends all look less terrified than before, but definitely still substantially terrified. Jason ignores that and shakes his head, one eyebrow drawn. “Seriously? This is level one and  _ that  _ was level two?” He nods towards where Tim’s restraints are crumpled on the floor, clicking his tongue like he’s disappointed with this easy version as he moves to free Jaime. “These guys really need to work on their difficulty progression.”

“And you need to spend less time with your PlayStation,” Tim grumbles, and Jason shoots him a wink.

“We have a romantic dinner booked for tonight.”

“I hate you.” If Jason responds, Tim doesn’t hear it, because he coughs exactly once and suddenly everything in his body decides that it’s time to fuck him up and pain radiates through him, ribs protesting heroically and white spots filling his vision again as darkness begins to march inwards from the outer edges of his eyes.

_ “Shit,”  _ comes spoken in a hissed whisper and vaguely reaches his ears as he begins to tip sideways (he thinks it’s sideways, anyway, not that he really has his bearings right now), bracing himself for a world of pain as the unforgiving metal ground rapidly approaches his face.

Instead, he’s met with an arm around his shoulder and another supporting his head, catching him inches from the floor and then lowering him slowly the rest of the way. “Hey, hey,” says a soft voice, one that’s almost never this gentle, so he forces his eyes open again in confusion. Jason is still here, forehead pinched in concern as he keeps one hand on Tim’s shoulder and the other carefully on the top of his head. “Red? You with me?” He says quietly.

“Head hurts,” Tim grumbles, and he’s pissed about how pathetic he sounds but there’s not a lot he can do about it because he can’t really think straight. He still speaks English, though, so that’s good.

“I know, kiddo,” Jason says, infinitely gentle as he brushes his fingers through Tim’s hair. “We’ll be home soon.”

A blurry thought crosses Tim’s mind and he frowns. “Is anyone else here?”

“Big Bird is on the other side of the ship,” Jason says, nodding and slowly helping Tim to lie flat on his back, moving his hand to cover his eyes against the light. Tim sighs and lets his shoulders relax; the odd mix of ultraviolet and regular light in their cell had been disorienting even to the non-concussed, so to have it removed from the equation is a huge relief, and Jason’s hand is warm and familiar against his forehead. “I commed him when I heard you call and again when I was opening the door, but he’s pretty far away so he said it would take him a few minutes to get here,” Jason continues. There’s a pause, and Tim can hear the frown in his voice when he considers him and says, “I don’t know if this concussion is really so mild to moderate, Red.”

“Nah, it is. That alarm just fucked me up a bit,” Tim acquiesces, moving to take over Jason’s eye-covering job, but his brother bats his hand away and Tim scowls as best he can with half his face hidden. “You still need to beat level one.”

He feels Jason shake his head, but it’s Bart’s voice that filters through the air. “We’re crash, Rob, I vibrated ‘em off; we’re all free, just, uh… chillin’. Um… you okay, buddy?”

Jason gives something between a snort and a scoff, and Tim feels a small smile creep up his face.  _ “He tenido peor,”  _ he says again, and he hears a few small huffs of laughter that he counts as a win in his book. 

“Yeah, but that doesn't mean you gotta be looking for trouble,” Jason grumbles. 

“The hell are  _ you  _ talking about?” Tim mutters, poking a bony elbow into his brother’s leg. “I’m a Robin. Looking for trouble is literally my job.”

“You’re a psycho, is what you are.”

“Oh, wh— pot, meet kettle, Jesus Christ.”

Jason laughs and nudges Tim’s shoulder with his knee, careful not to aggravate any injuries. “Smartass.”

“No, you,” Tim says automatically, and Jason ignores him automatically as well. He swallows, wincing at the taste of blood still very much caked in and around his mouth, and of course the wince makes his head hurt more, and Jason must feet his little shudder through his hand, because he hums and gently guides his little brother’s head off the cold metal floor to rest on his lap, one hand still blocking the light while the other carefully cards through his hair. Tim  _ really  _ doesn’t want to admit that it makes him feel better, so he doesn’t say anything, but he lets himself be helped, for once. He’s kind of too tired to devote any energy to maintaining his pride, anyway. “Can we leave now?” He grumbles, and he knows he sounds like a petulant child, but hey, he’s definitely not above pissing off his older brother. 

“Well, Big Bird is the one with that Motherbox thing that none of you ever shut up about, but if you want I could ditch your scrawny ass here and go track him down for no reason.” Ah. There’s the classic Jason Todd. Thank god there’s this one now instead of the one that was just being nice to him.

Tim rolls his eyes even though it hurts and Jason’s hand is covering them. Call it a reflex. “What, you want a cookie or something?”

Jason scoffs. Again. He does that a lot. “Yeah, I want the ones you fuckin’ stole from the cabinet the other day, you bitch baby.”

“Who said those were yours?”

“There was a post-it note with my name on it on the jar!”

Tim hums pensively. It rattles in his skull but he can’t really bring himself to care. “Sounds like a pretty shit security system to me. Not even encrypted.”

“And when the hell did the Replacement grow some balls?”

“I ain’t scared of you,” Tim says, grinning and drawing on his extensive mental files of Jason’s Crime-Alley-rat accent. “I survived the first three times you tried to kill me; what’s left to be scared of?”

“I could replace your coffee with decaf.”

Tim freezes. Again, the jolt puts another wave of pain in his head, but he’s also panicking, so he still doesn’t care. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would and I’m gonna, because in case you hadn’t noticed, you have a goddamn concussion, shit-for-brains.”

Tim groans. It hurts, he doesn’t care, et cetera. “You’re a fucking sadist.”

Jason is grinning; he can feel it in the air. “Hell yeah I am.” He pauses for a second, then says, “So who are your little pals, Babybird?”

Tim pauses to think through the lineup: La’gaan,  _ Lagoon Boy,  _ Team tenure 11 months; Jaime Reyes,  _ Blue Beetle,  _ Team tenure 10 months; Bart Allen,  _ Impulse,  _ Team tenure 2 months; Virgil Hawkins,  _ Static,  _ Team tenure 3 ½ weeks. And, of course, Jason Todd,  _ Red Hood/Robin II,  _ who died over three years ago now. None of this squad would have any way of knowing him as Robin II, but Jason hadn’t necessarily known that when he busted in here and took off his helmet like it was no big deal. Yeah, he’s wearing a domino, but anybody who’s seen Jason as Robin would likely recognize him even with how much he’s grown physically. 

“Holy shit!” Tim hisses, jolting to sit up, and of course it hurts like a bitch, but this time it’s enough to force a grunt of pain past his lips and make him fall back to his place.

“Hey, hey, stay down, idiot,” Jason says, but there’s nothing but concern behind it. Tim grits his teeth as pain hits him in waves and Jason just sits with him through it, the hand in his hair a comforting, safe presence that he tries his best to latch onto as he works on pulling himself back. He swallows hard and can’t help the breathless gag that rolls up his throat and fuck, maybe Jason is right that this concussion is worse than he thought it was, because even though he can remember stuff it’s definitely been a long time since he’s had one that hurts this bad.

When it passes, Tim lets his body go limp and lets a relieved breath escape his lips, and Jason must think he’d passed out because he curses and lifts his hand away. The change in light makes Tim startle slightly and open his eyes, which he kind of regrets, but it doesn’t hurt quite as much as he thought it would and it’s definitely worth it to see the relief that floods Jason’s face, his brow relaxing and a small sigh puffing against Tim’s skin.

“Jesus,” his brother mutters, voice hushed and careful. “You don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

“Mm… where’s the fun in that?” 

"You're a moron, Red."

"That's fair."


	3. Alien (1979)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for roll call and horse discourse.

“The Peak Moron,” Jason says, but he’s smiling that lopsided smile Tim knows so well. His face softens, then, though, and he resumes running his fingers through Tim’s hair. “Hang in there for me, okay, Babybird?” He pauses to cover Tim’s eyes with his other hand again. “Tell me about your friends,” he says, and Tim knows he’s probably just trying to keep him awake and talking, but the thought reminds him of why he tried to sit up in the first place. But he can’t really… there’s no way to really talk to him about it while everyone else is in the room. He’ll have to bring it up later when he’s a little more coherent. He’s down to just try to stay awake for now.

“Hmm… Blue’s on the far right — Blue Beetle. He’s got a freaky metal bug stapled to his spine… gives him a suit of armor. He talks to it sometimes. It’s really cool, it can translate any language an’... an’ a bunch of other stuff. Say hi, Blue.”

There’s a momentary awkward pause, not that Tim can really feel the awkwardness at this point, before Jaime says, “Uh, hi.” He laughs oddly and Tim can hear him scratching the back of his neck. “It’s— I’m Jaime.” Tim feels Jason genuinely startle a little, and the boy laughs quietly again. “Hey, anybody who’s got Robin’s trust definitely deserves mine.”

One corner of Jason’s lip quirks slightly upwards. “Huh. Look at you being a baby Goldie, Red.” Tim scoffs and ignores him, although he’s more annoyed by being called a baby than he is by being compared to Dick. “Alright. Who’s next?”

“...Impulse,” Tim replies tiredly. “Bart Allen.”

“Allen?” Jason repeats, surprised, and Tim hums an affirmation.

“Grandson from the future.”

“Ah. Classic.”

He hums again. “Uh, he’s… speedster. Came from the future to stop Blue from… hmm, from fucking up the world, but now they’re best friends, so. Mhmm.”

Tim feels Jason nod at Bart, who he assumes is still kind of hiding behind Jaime and partially vibrating through the floor and the wall behind him. “Mhmm,” Jason says, rock solid as ever. “Next?”

“Um… Static. He’s cool, ’s got… like, a manhole cover? And some sick lightning. ’S new. Got kidnapped one time and had those, uh… the metagene experiments. With the aliens. Not— not these aliens, the Reach ones. Those guys were jerks.”

“Damn straight. And I’m Virgil. Thanks for busting us out, man.”

Jason nods again. “Yeah,” he says awkwardly, and Tim wants to laugh but clenches his teeth around the sound and settles for the smile he can’t tamp down instead. Jason nudges him again. “And on the left?”

“...Lagoon Boy. Um… Atlantean sorcery student, yeah? He can, like… he grows an’ gets real strong. Like the Hulk. ’Member that old comic? Like him, but doesn’t go… go crazy. Y’know?”

“Sure,” Jason says, but Tim is sure La’gaan is eyeing him suspiciously. La’gaan trusts Tim, yeah, but the guy can be pretty impulsive and untrusting. There’s a long, tense pause. Tim presses his shoulder into Jason’s leg, and the message that comes along with it —  _ don’t do anything, dumbass —  _ is clear enough.

Finally, La’gaan sighs and Tim hears the metallic pang as the boy tilts his head back against the wall in defeat. “It’s La’gaan.” Another pause, and Jason presses back against his shoulder slightly in response to what must be a red-eyed stare, but he doesn’t move. “And who are you?” 

Jason tenses, but nowhere near as much as Tim would’ve expected, which is a good sign. There’s a third pause wherein Jason seems to be debating something with himself, and Tim can feel his brother’s eyes on him, so he gives him an encouraging smile in place of a nod. Jason sighs and relaxes. “I’m his brother.”

A shuffling sound comes from where his friends are, and he’s pretty sure it’s all of them startling just as Jason did a second ago. “He— Robin, you have a brother?” Jaime whispers loudly and sharply, which, like— that doesn’t make sense at all. Tim and Dick are together all the time when they’re in the Mountain — they zeta in together, they’re constantly talking and joking and standing in each other’s space, they literally wear the same emblem — did they… all this time, did their teammates not know they’re brothers?

“Uh, I have several…?” Tim mumbles, the corner of his lip scrunching up a little in confusion. “You team leader, for example?” 

The shuffling is much louder this time. “Nightwing is your  _ brother?!”  _ Three voices shout at once, and Tim stiffens, pain bouncing around through his brain like a spiky ball from hell.  _ Good metaphor, concussion brain _ .

Jason shushes them sharply but quietly, gently rubs his scalp while the pain passes, speaking to him in a near-silent voice only he can hear. “Shh, Timmy, you’re okay. You’re okay. Breathe through it.”

Tim does as he’s told and relaxes much quicker this time, granted this one wave was less painful. He’s really, really ready for Dick to get here so they can all go home, and by that he means so that the three of them can go back to the Manor and he can get some damn sleep. He swallows the dry, metallic taste in his mouth and can’t help the way his eyes crinkle; this conversation would be confusing whether he was concussed or not, Christ. “Of course he’s my brother? We don’t try to hide that at all, guys.”

When Virgil speaks, his voice is much quieter. “I mean,  _ I _ only been here for two seconds, but… these two have been here for like, a year, and they didn’t even know?”

Assuming he’s gesturing at Jaime and La’gaan, Tim forces himself not to shrug and just lets his lip curl further. “I dunno, dude, I assumed it was common knowledge. We got the same… uh, same logo and everything?”

“I always thought you guys just had the same mentor, so you were like, rivals,” La’gaan says, and damn, it actually makes a lot of sense that he’d think that, knowing him and his tendency to compete with everyone. 

Jaime speaks with a frown in his voice. “Uh…  _ I  _ always thought you had the same mentor and that made me think you were  _ friends.  _ Y’know?” And that makes sense, too, because Jaime calls his closest friends  _ hermano,  _ and he treats them like that, too.

“I knew you were brothers,” Bart says quickly, and  _ that _ makes sense because that’s the way he does everything, “But I kinda cheated, y’know?”

Tim pauses, thinks blearily for a few seconds, and lets out a  _ pffft  _ and a few giggles that make his head throb and that turn into a groan pretty quickly. “Red, Jesus Christ, why won’t you fucking sit still?” Jason mumbles softly, annoyance bleeding into his tone, and Tim gets it, because he’d be annoyed too if Jason was the one with the wack concussion and Tim had to deal with him constantly trying to get up and talk and move around. Tim giggles again and winces, giggles and winces, tries to shut himself up and can’t keep back the last giggle and the accompanying wince. Jason shifts slightly. “Definitely not a mild concussion,” he sighs. “What’s so funny, huh?”

His face is a half-grin-half-grimace as he reaches up and curls his fingers around Jason’s wrist, the one attached to the hand that’s still covering his eyes. “Th-this is…” giggle, wince, “it’s… ’s jus’ like  _ Alien.  _ Stuck on the ship, ’n… ’n everyone’s crowding around th’ one guy. What if… Jay, what if I got— got an alien in my stomach?” He keeps giggling and wincing, giggling and wincing, and Jason’s eyebrows keep drawing closer and closer together; if they get much closer, they’re totally gonna look like one of those fuzzy caterpillars. 

Jason sighs heavily. “Names, bud. And there’s no alien in your stomach.” His hand leaves Tim’s hair, much to his consternation, and presumably presses into Jason’s temple for a second before returning to rub Tim’s scalp. “I need to stop picking horror movies for us to watch.” His head lifts to the four boys. “If you value your fingers, you’ll pretend you never heard that.” Tim hears several gulps and grins, forcing himself not to giggle again because damn, that sucked.

“You gonna eat ‘em?” Tim asks, clenching his grinning teeth together. 

“I don’t eat fingers, Red, I’m not a horse.”

“Horses ’re friendly. ’N these guys know… name’s Tim. You can trust ’em. I’d never… never say yours if you couldn’t. Trust me.”

Jason shifts again, confused. “I do trust you,” he says immediately. “But how the hell do they know that?”

“Future Boy didn’t know we kept ’em secret,” Tim replies, eyes drooping closed before his training kicks in and they jolt back open, but his head moves too much and this time the waves of pain in his skull don’t break very cleanly, don’t dull as much. It hurts.  _ Fuck _ . “Jay,” he mumbles, and something must have changed in his voice, because Jason stiffens and tilts his head down to look at him better, taking his hand from his brother’s eyes and moving it to hold one side of his face. Tim blinks his eyes open and Jason curses softly; yeah, his pupils probably look like they were drawn by a five-year-old.

Jason nods knowingly. “Yeah, I getcha. Hang in there, okay? Can you do that for me, Babybird?”

Tim hums miserably, but it’s still a positive, kind of. “This sucks…”

“Yeah, well. Nobody ever said getting your brain slapped around was fun.”


	4. Timmy Wants Nap Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is very tired. He's gonna go ahead and blame all the weird shit he's saying on that.

The waves dull slightly, rolling out slowly, and it still hurts more than it did before, but it’s a little better than a second ago and he can definitely work with that. He does his best to relax his muscles and his jaw, tries to just focus on staying awake, and Jason certainly knows the drill, but he’s clearly decided to shift to asking things that are easier for Tim to answer, which kind of leaves his friends in the dust because it’s all either shit that pertains to the Wayne family, not that they know that, or random school-type trivia questions.

“Can you tell me what movie we watched last weekend?”

“... _ Mean Girls.  _ Lil’ D hadn’t seen it.”

“And can you tell me what fell over in the middle of the movie?”

“...Bowl of M&Ms?”

“Mhmm. Who wrote  _ Frankenstein _ ?”

“Mary Shelley. Carried her husband’s heart ’round with her. What a bad bitch… ’s cooler than us.”

“Agreed.” Jason nudges him again, even more gently this time but with the same vaguely loopy grin on his face. “Third element on the periodic table?”

“Uh...Beryllium…”

“Try again.”

“Mm. Lithium.”

“Good. How many bats are there in the Cave?”

“246.”

“Wait, you actually counted?”

“...You didn’t?”

“Of course not.”

“Trick questions ’re dumb…”

Jason gently rubs his thumb under Tim’s eye and it feels so nice that Tim is really starting to wish Jason  _ did  _ do hugs. “Yeah, but you’re smart enough to call my bullshit, so it’s all good.”

“Not fair…”

“Life isn’t either, Replacement. Tell me what you had for breakfast this morning.”

“Coffee.”

Jason sighs. “Alright, that one doesn’t count. Try, um… What did you tell me you saw on your way to school yesterday?”

“...Snake? Snake.”

“Ain’t that a quote from that John Green book?” Jason says pensively. Tim snorts and subsequently groans, and Jason winces along with him. “Oh, sorry, sorry,” he says quietly. Tim expects him to say something like  _ too bad I’m so painfully hilarious,  _ but in an incredible show of restraint, Jason actually holds back a witty/bitchy jab and goes back to asking questions. “What’s the largest bird on Earth?”

“...You still smaller than B?”

Jason purses his lips around a grin. “Depends what armor he’s wearing. Bats aren’t birds, though; I need the largest bird.”

“You.”

“Answer, Timbo.”

“...Ostrich. Puts his head in the sand.”

“Eh, kinda. What weapon does Nightwing fight with?”

“Escrima sticks. Jay, we should… use ’m to roast marshmallows.”

“...Tim, what the actual fu--”

_ “Hood?”  _ A voice cuts painfully through the fog filling Tim’s brain and he peels his eyes open.  _ “I got a trail of gunshot wounds to follow, here; where are you?” _

Tim grimaces at the sound echoing down the halls, giving it a metal edge that really doesn’t feel good. “Close your eyes, Red,” Jason says, and Tim dutifully obeys, watching a bit of light filter through his eyelids. Jason’s hands reappear on either side of his head, carefully covering his ears and blessedly muffling that nasty echo.  _ “Here!”  _ He calls, as quietly as he can while still ensuring that Dick hears him, and it still hurts Tim’s head but he’s grateful for the buffer so he does his best to not react. He can barely feel Dick’s sprinting footsteps through the floor, but that’s totally normal because the guy’s a freak.

Against his better judgement, Tim squints his eyes open when he feels the small rush of air that tells him that Dick has come to an abrupt stop in front of the cell. And there he is, his oldest brother bearing his bright blue emblem and his marshmallow sticks, taking a half of a second to glance over the four long-silent, moderately shell-shocked boys in the back of the room before he’s suddenly appearing by Tim’s side, crouched onto one knee with one hand on Tim’s chest and the other gently inspecting the dried blood covering the lower half of his face, which is still resting on Jason’s lap. Tim suddenly realizes that, with Jason’s hand covering his eyes, his friends would’ve spent this whole time seeing nothing but a grotesque and bloody smile telling them shit they didn’t know like some off-brand Wizard of Oz. Yeah, he’ll definitely have to apologize to them later. Right now, though, he can only kind of think straight (still speaks English, though!) and he’s mostly just glad Dick is finally here.

Tim blinks and Dick gives him his classic worry-pinched,  _ I’m-your-mother-now _ smile that Tim knows just about as well as the coppery taste in his mouth because those two things tend to follow each other pretty well. “Hey, bud,” Dick says softly, somehow perfectly matching Jason’s volume without having heard it. “You still with us, Babybird?”

“’M here,” Tim replies, but he really wishes he wasn’t because he’s tired and hurting and still on a _fucking_ _alien_ _spaceship_. Seriously, the jump to get from Pre-Robin Tim Drake activities to Post-Robin Tim Drake activities is pretty insane and impressive, but that never makes being stuck in deep space any less shitty. He hates that he can say that from experience.

Dick smiles, a bit less worried this time but still very much clinging to concern. “Good. Hang in there; we’ll be home soon.” Dick gently brushes his fingers across Tim’s forehead, but Jason’s hand is still in his hair and there are no bangs to push away, so it just feels like a soothing touch and Tim can’t say he minds. Tim’s eyes are uncovered, so he can see and barely hear Dick as he whispers something to Jason, and Jason replies, and the two of them devolve quickly into their standard Oldest Robins method of conversing that makes very little sense to anybody other than them. The only thing he really catches is a hiss of  _ oh shit, those were only level two? _ from Dick. Which is understandable, considering.

Dick nods and looks back down at him with a grin. “At least it’s not too bad to get your ass kicked for making a sick escape.”

“Don’ think it was that sick…” Tim mutters in response, glaring half-heartedly at his oldest brother. “Ended up  _ making  _ me sick.” He flicks his eyes in what he’s pretty sure is the direction of his awesome little nosebleed escapade from earlier, and Dick follows his gaze and grimaces appropriately. 

“That looks fun.”

“Had a blast.”

Dick raises an eyebrow at him and huffs a small laugh at Tim’s response of an incredibly fake smile before he finally spares more than a half a second for the boys in the back. “You guys okay?”

They’re silent for entirely too long. Jason is rock steady (haha, like Bebop— wow, Tim is so tired) beneath him, but he can feel Dick shifting awkwardly a few times through this endless soundless hellscape. He isn’t worried about it — it’s such a tiny movement that there’s so way anybody other than a Bat could see it — but it’s still funny and Tim is totally gonna make fun of him for it later. Well, that is, he’ll make fun of him for it three weeks from now when he’s done sleeping.

Dick’s voice is edged with worry when he speaks again. “Guys? Are you all okay?”

Bart, eyeing his shocked teammates carefully, bites his lip and leans forward to whisper theatrically, one hand held to the side of his mouth. “They’re just a little moded, Wing. Recently found out your familial ties and all.”

Dick’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. Tim is wondering if it’s an insult to Frida Khalo if he decides they look like caterpillars again. He doesn’t want to insult Frida Khalo; he hopes she and Mary Shelley are hanging out being bad bitches together in the afterlife. Then he’s got something to look forward to after he fucking dies of old age on this mothership because they  _ still haven’t left yet, oh my fucking god, he just wants to sleep. _ “Recently found out?” Dick says, and oh yeah, he was talking about something a second ago. Maybe that’ll distract him long enough for Tim to steal the Motherbox from him and go the fuck home. Ditch his ass; that’ll teach him to be so slow. 

“Apparently they didn’t know you and Replacement are brothers,” Jason supplies, ever helpful with that snarky tone. “Despite, y’know…” he gestures at the R on the Robin suit and the bat-bird on the Nightwing one, at the matching utility belts and dominos, at the incredibly close-quarters position the three of them are sitting in literally right now even though they don’t really need to be. Yeah, Tim thinks he makes a fair point.

“Okay, yeah, but… why didn’t you tell us?” Jaime finally sputters, and Dick relaxes a little with the knowledge that at least he’s not brain dead. 

Dick and his caterpillar friends are still frowning. “Uh… I mean, I assumed you all knew? It’s not like we hide it?”

La’gaan’s eyes narrow suspiciously “But you Bats are always so secretive and dark and brooding, and we’re told to never ask you anything. Who knows what you could be hiding?” 

The caterpillars have officially met. It’s like Dick set them up on a blind date. Tim hopes they’re happy together. Holy shit, he needs to stop. “Uh… who exactly told you to never ask us anything?” Dick asks.

While both his brothers are busy petting his hair and poking his face and generally being lovably annoying, Jason’s hand hasn’t yet returned to cover Tim’s eyes, so he has a slightly clearer idea of what’s going on. That said, he can’t really see La’gaan’s face from this angle, but hearing the sneer in his voice tells him everything he needs to know. “Superman himself,” the boy says proudly.

The brothers blink at each other, once, twice, and then all three sets of eyes squeeze shut and exasperated groans resound from their chests. La’gaan startles, but doesn’t speak as the three of them immediately start bitching and moaning, talking over each other (quietly, of course) as they complain more than explain about their apparent relationship with Superman.

“What a little bitch he is,” Dick says, as mildly interested as a person seeing a new variety of apple for the first time in a supermarket. “I feel like we need to, like, call a meeting or something.”

“To say what?” Jason replies. He tips his head back to rest tiredly against the cell wall, which Tim knows is one of the most notable major differences between plant cells and animal cells, along with chloroplasts and a large central vacuole. Please let him sleep.  _ “Superman, you need to stop telling everyone we’re total hardasses just because you think it’s funny?”  _ Jason tried to make his voice exceedingly deep and rough, and it kinda sounds like an impression of Batman, but it also just kinda sounds like a whale that gargled some gravel. “How’s that gonna go over with a guy whose entire sense of humor is literally just the phrase  _ Hi Hungry, I’m Dad?” _

Tim can’t stop himself from giggling, and the pain that radiates through him from his ribs and his skull really doesn’t surprise him at this point, but he can feel Jason glaring so he tries to shut up again. It sort of works, and he’ll take that as a win. “I bet he’s… trying to keep B’s identity cuz-- cuz if everyone thinks we’re hardasses… nobody ’ll notice that Mr. I-Work-Alone actually has… like, has a million kids r-running around breaking everything.”

Dick and Jason share the quietest-ever burst of laughter and then Dick says, “Okay, but we’re not all exactly rays of sunshine, either.” He side-eyes Jason, who politely socks him in the shoulder, and Tim giggles and winces yet again. Dick rolls his eyes and looks back to La’gaan. “Superman is kind of, uh… he’s like our uncle. We’ve known him forever, and he tends to be a little more… outgoing?… than Batman. We mess with him, he messes with us, y’know? Which is probably why he told you that.”

“Also b’cuz it’s true,” Tim tumbles, and Jason socks Dick again who responds with a dramatic whimper of  _ why me? _

“But why-- why does it matter that he’s more outgoing than Batman? What about your parents?” Virgil asks, and the brothers can’t keep their disbelieving blinking from resurfacing. Do they really not know? What?

“We-- he--” Dick tries, stuttering, but he’s really just so confused right now, and he sends Jason a grateful glance when he takes over.

“Uh, Batman  _ is  _ our parent.”

Silence.

Silence.

Silence. 

Y’know, fuck their lives, man.

_ “WHAT?!” _

Tim jerks and gasps, and his brothers immediately whirl on the squad with something not quite like fury, but more like a genuinely remarkable range of pissed-off-ness in their eyes. Well, Dick is pissed off, anyway. There’s always a  _ little  _ more weight to the anger when it comes to Jason, especially where it concerns Tim’s wellbeing, and Tim knows it. He’s not sneaky. The looks are more than enough to silence the squad, although Bart is tapping his foot at a thousand miles per hour while sitting in the corner with his chin on his knees, eyes present but wishing they weren’t. Dick glares at him and the tapping stops, and the boy meeting his gaze with his foot frozen halfway raised to make another tap. He  _ could _ set his foot down, obviously, but the longer Dick looks at him, the longer it hangs in the air there. Dick gives up and turns to where Jason is silently helping Tim settle down and breathe through it. He feels Dick’s hand on his forehead and hears a hum that’s pitched just high enough for him to know he has no fever, although he’s not really sure why he would, given his injuries. His brothers can be, uh… overprotective. 

Several moments after Tim has already calmed down, Jason goes to cover his eyes again, but Tim catches his hand with a frown, so his brother sighs and resigns himself to petting his hair.

Tim knows he should probably have his eyes covered, yeah, but he kind of wants to watch whatever this train wreck is that’s still happening. Dick returns his focus to the boys. “Yes, Batman is our father. The entire League and Team know that, too. Where have you guys been? Not you,” he says, waving a hand at Virgil, “you’ve barely had the time to meet everyone. But still… is Superman, like, the only person you guys get info from?”

“I mean… kinda?” Jaime tries, and it comes out pretty solid. Good on him. “After he told us not to ask you any questions, yeah.”

Jason’s eyes are hidden behind his domino, but Tim can still tell that he’s rolling them right now. “Fine. We’ll call a meeting.”

“Can we maybe do that  _ after  _ we get home?” Tim finally groans. His head and his ribs and his nose and… well, his everything hurts, and he’s tired and cold and it’s been a long day, okay? 

“Yeah, good call, Timmy,” Dick mumbles, digging the Motherbox out of his utility belt. He looks up at the boys. “Any last questions?” He sighs wearily. “Didn’t realize people don’t know this stuff.”

“I got one,” Bart says quickly, because, again, that’s the way he does everything. Dick raises an eyebrow at him and he apparently takes that as an invitation to prod a poking finger at the Motherbox. “Where did you get  _ that?  _ I thought your bro here was kidding about you having one! Aren’t there only like five of those in the world?”

“Three, actually,” Dick corrects with a shrug. “So there’s plenty to go around. Don’t worry about it.”

Bart scowls and shakes his head. “I think you guys might be hardasses.”

Tim grins even though he still can’t really see any of them from this angle. “Told ya,” he mutters, and his brothers’ matching grins of response are probably the brightest things in the room even though Dick is opening a boomtube at the entrance of the cell.

Dick turns and helps Jason lift Tim carefully into his arms, and he pauses once his brother is secure and a wave of pain has passed to press a feather-light kiss to Tim’s temple and squeeze Jason’s shoulder with one hand. He picks up Jason’s discarded helmet with his other hand and nods. “Let’s get you home, Babybird,” he mumbles softly, and Tim just smiles and rests his aching skull on Jason’s chest. His brother holds him a little closer, enough that Tim can feel his heartbeat against his cheek. He almost wants to laugh. To think that one day he’d be cradled in Jason Todd’s arms and listening to his heart as it actually beats in his chest, that he’d be there beside the real flying Dick Grayson and feeling comforted by a kiss he pressed to his head, that here he is, and that he thinks of nothing but how glad he is to be home before they’ve even left this cell. No hero worship, no violence or cruelty separating them, no dead Robins. Just brothers.

Tim  _ does  _ laugh, then, and winces, and laughs again at Jason’s admonishment and winces, and eventually finally manages to chill the fuck out. Does he usually get so sappy when he’s concussed? 

Dick ushers the others through the boomtube; Tim can see them gazing worriedly at him. They’ve probably never seen him with his guard so far down, never seen him succumb to an injury this much, and they probably think that means it’s really bad, but that’s not it. It’s just that there’s very few instances where Tim can  _ afford  _ to let his guard down, to let himself stay down from an injury, but this happens to be a pretty safe situation, and dammit if he’s not gonna soak it in while it’s here, however brief. The moment Jason had removed his squad’s restraints, Tim was safe. He could rest, let himself be taken care of, because he knew Jason would allow no harm to come to him for at least the time it took to put himself back on-guard. And that’s about as close to safe as Tim Drake ever gets, so he’ll take what he’s given gladly.

They emerge from the boomtube in Happy Harbor, about a mile down the road from Mount Justice and a bit out of the way, close to the woods where they wouldn’t be spotted. Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Why didn’t we just go directly into the Mountain?” He asks.

“About that,” Dick says, and the boys sharpen to attention at the authoritative, very Nightwing edge to his voice. Jason, holding Tim, stands behind their older brother, slightly shielded from view. “There was a brief period of time where Hood was… brainwashed. He committed some crimes that he had no control over, but as a matter of privacy we decided to keep a lot of the information in the family. So some of the league kind of still think he’s a criminal, and we try to avoid taking him into big League bases like the Mountain because it becomes a hassle. But the Team is all pretty familiar with brainwashing and mind control,” he glances at Jaime, who nods plainly while the others watch him, “so I hope you’ll all understand when I ask you, as your leader, not to talk about the fact that you’ve seen him. That’s not an order; that’s your call. But I know you’ll do the right thing.” 

The boys all look at each other for several seconds, gazes bouncing around, before they turn back to their leader and nod decisively. Bart has to know that’s all basically a lie — they’re just trying to avoid mentioning Jason to older team members in case someone decides to come looking for a dead bird — but he’s not saying anything, and his acting is pretty damn good. Tim appreciates that. He smiles and gives a small wave. “You did good work today, guys. I’ll see you soon.”

Virgil tweaks his head sideways before a smile covers his face, too. “You too, Rob. And thanks for getting us out.”

Tim’s browns draw together, suddenly realizing that he isn’t entirely sure  _ how  _ Jason and Dick found them. “I didn’t…”

Virgil nods knowingly. “Your emergency beacon. You hit it on your way to free me. ’S a good call, squad leader.” He looks up at Dick and further up at Jason, which will always be funny to Tim. “And thank  _ you _ for getting us out, too. It’s… actually, it’s cool to meet you both. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Jason glances at Dick before turning back to the kid. “You won’t.”

Virgil’s smile turns into a satisfied, open grin, and he chuckles. “I know. Never do.”

Jason blinks. He looks down at Tim, his little brother held carefully in his arms, pale and injured and more than strong enough to hold his own and lead a team and kick the world’s ass. He looks up at the kid, at Virgil, and can’t help the small upward quirk of his lips. He nods a little awkwardly, but he thinks he understands. 

Dick eyes Jason up and down and lets a smile slip easily onto his face. “Really,” he says, turning to the squad, “good work. But just so you know…” he pauses for effect, and they all stiffen just a little, “lockpicking lessons start tomorrow.”

They relax a moment later, huffing small laughs and grinning at the scowl on Tim’s face; he didn’t even say anything to Dick. Less tense now, the squad says their goodbyes, wishes Tim a speedy recovery, and starts off down the road towards the Mountain, laughing and talking all the way. The brothers watch them go; Jason mumbles that maybe they aren’t half bad. Tim is pleased with that, but is also beginning to nod off. He taps at Jason, who notices and taps at Dick, who notices and opens another boomtube to the Batcave for the three to go through. The brothers are home.


	5. Fikry (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end!

Tim wakes up without opening his eyes and is both incredibly confused and not at all surprised by his auditory surroundings.

“—Wait, so does he actually have, like, magical teleportation powers, or is it just a metaphor for the Underground Railroad?” Dick says, and honestly, Tim should  _ really _ just go back to sleep.

“Both, Grayson. Learn to see the nuance,” Damian huffs, which means they must be back home. “Symbolism is important.”

“But does he teleport or not?”

“I hate to agree with the brat, but he’s right, Dickiebird.” Jason. Okay. That puts all three of his brothers, and all four Robins, in the same room at the same time, discussing, uh… one of the following: a movie or form of entertainment, history, or literature, which covers three of the six Trivial Pursuit question categories. So they could also be playing that. In other words, what the fuck is going on? “How are you gonna get to the real meaning of the text if you don’t pick up on what matters most to the author? What they decide is important or not important enough to be included is worthy of your attention and scrutiny. You need to think of  _ why  _ they would include it; all the words are exactly where they are for a reason.”

Alright, so literature, probably, considering Jason’s magically expanding vocabulary and sudden academic presence. The guy is a huge humanities nerd and he’s not even in school anymore; he annotates the margins of his books because he enjoys it. Which, y’know — it’s a better passtime than shooting people in the kneecaps. So.

“What’re you readin’?” Tim slurs, forcing his eyes open and noticing that he’s still pretty foggy and that it could be from the concussion or the pain meds or both. He’s in his room, lying on his own bed, and his brothers are scattered around him, also on his own bed: Dick, sitting loosely against the footboard with Tim’s feet in his lap (they’re poking out from under the squishy comforter); Jason, on Dick’s end of the bed but with his back flat on the mattress and his feet halfway up one of the bedposts; and Damian, sitting near Tim’s head with his legs crossed to avoid kicking Jason’s face, a blue-covered book open and poised in his lap.

Tim doesn’t mention it, just smiles at them all being here, surrounding him just because they can. And apparently they’ve already started doing the only thing concussed Tim will really be able to do for a while here: listening to books read aloud forever. Oh, well. He’s down for it. There’s a pile of stuff he’s been meaning to read anyway. 

“Hey, Timbo,” Jason says, grinning at him from his somewhat upside down position. “Guess what wasn’t mild to moderate?”

“Ah, shit,” Tim grumbles, lifting one hand to prod carefully at his temple, which hurts, but a lot less than he remembers. “Man… I was hoping I could get away with moderate, at least.”

“It’s not exactly severe, either,” Dick says helpfully. “Kinda just on the edge of both.”

“I am told you failed to escape your restraints, Drake,” Damian says, but his voice is soft and almost even kind. “Admittedly unsurprising.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but he smiles, too. He’s definitely home. He glances over at the book again. “What’re you reading?” He repeats.

Damian lifts the binding from his lap so Tim can see the cover, but he speaks before Tim can remind him that he shouldn’t be reading right now.  _ “The Water Dancer  _ — Ta-Nehisi Coates.”

“Ohhh,” Tim draws out, his cloudy mind suddenly connecting all the pieces of the conversation he’d woken up to. Damian gives him a look and he manages a small shrug. “I’ve read it. Just figured out what Dick was talking about earlier.”

Damian scowls, and he suddenly shoves a piece of rectangular cardstock between the pages (he refuses to dog-ear them, the madman) and snaps the book shut. Tim thinks he’s messed something up until Damian sets the book aside and says, “Well, then reading it to you is nonsensical.” He looks around at his brothers, seemingly fairly calm and good(ish) humored for once. “What shall we read instead?”

Tim does his best to bury his surprise in favor of appreciation and his lips quirk pensively to one side of his face. “I’ve always been meaning to read  _ The Storied Life of AJ Fikry  _ and never got around to it. I think there’s a copy in the library.”

“Nah,” Jason says, rolling off the bed to standing, “it’s in my room. I was just gonna start reading it, but I’ll let Dami’s emotive character work drive the text for me instead.” He ducks whatever Damian chucks at him — a Jolly Rancher from his pocket, by the looks of it — with a grin and slips out the door before the kid can throw anything else.

In the wake of his departure, Damian growls and slumps back against the headboard. A moment later, he begins slowly sliding down the wood, over the pillow, over the other pillow, and down onto the mattress of the bed. Tim watches him out of the corner of his eye, infinitely confused because the kid is basically melting into a pile of demon child wiggling its way under the covers. Subtly, Tim holds the comforter up a little for him; he doesn’t want him to be cold. They’ve been doing better recently; a lot better. A bad mission several months ago had forced them to rely on each other for survival and strength, and various things had happened that changed their perspectives of each other, but that was a story for another day. It’s still a bit slow going, but at least now they’re both firmly in the realm of  _ we have a mutual understanding and generally sort of care about each other,  _ which, in Tim’s book, put them tentatively on the path to someday even getting along, to being friends, to being brothers by choice and not just by law. Tim thinks he would like that.

Which is why he doesn’t protest as the mound of baby assassin burrows under the covers and slowly slinks his way from one side of the bed to the other. When Damian reaches Tim and curls up at his side, his back pressed against Tim’s hip and side and his head resting on a pillow by his arm, Tim says nothing, but he carefully reaches out and touches Damian’s hair, slow and gentle and watching like a hawk for any sign that he’s uncomfortable, even though Tim’s pretty sure Damian would tell him (very aggressively) if he was. Instead, to Tim’s surprise, Damian leans into the touch and his shoulders relax, and Tim can only smile in disbelief as he continues to card his fingers through his little brother’s spiky dark hair. For a moment, he just stares in wonder, completely at a loss for words at the realization that this is how far they’ve come, from Damian constantly trying to kill him on sight to Damian feeling safe enough to expose his back to him, relaxing with Tim’s touch, even being the one to initiate closeness in the first place. It was… remarkable. And even more remarkable… 

“...I’m glad you’re okay,” Damian whispers after several long moments, and it’s so quiet that Tim almost thinks he imagined it, but then Damian tucks himself in closer to Tim’s side and lets his eyes fall closed. He’s letting his guard down. Letting himself be vulnerable. Tim does the same. This was just about as safe as the two youngest Waynes were ever going to get, and Tim was more than okay with that, because it was safer than he’d ever felt in his life.

If he had looked over, he would’ve seen Dick grinning behind a hand covering his mouth, blue eyes shinier than usual at the sight before him and the brightness of the future. But Tim doesn’t look over; he’s too focused on gently brushing through Damian’s hair, watching it swish about softly with the movement as his breathing begins to even out. 

Jason walks back in a minute later holding a book with a red cover, and he pauses, watching his two little brothers for in silence for a moment before smiling and settling back down on the bed in the same position as before, cracking open the book and holding it over his face as he begins to read aloud. Tim knows it’s only a matter of time until he drops it, and he wants to stay awake to see that, but eventually he decides to just close his eyes and let the words wash over him, here in his home, surrounded by his home.

_ “On the ferry from Hyannis to Alice Island, Amelia Loman paints her nails yellow…” _

Jason glances over, not even a full sentence in. Tim and Damian are already asleep. He and Dick share a grin and he keeps reading.

They’re gonna be okay. They’re all already more okay than they were a second ago, and any start’s a start. They’re gonna be okay.


End file.
